


1 lemon, juiced

by sagetan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:29:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5633410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagetan/pseuds/sagetan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam tries and fails to make a salad for Amelia.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1 lemon, juiced

Sam rinses the blade under the tap. The dog has wandered in from the living room to snuffle at his pantleg hopefully, and Sam concentrates on keeping his foot very still, the water running cool and numbing on his hand.

He double-checks the recipe stuck to the cabinet door on a bright green post-it and drums his fingers on the counter. Feta cheese, cherry tomato, red onion, pitted black olives, juiced lemon.

Juiced lemon.

"Not now, Dog," he mumbles, side-stepping him on the way to the fridge. He got all the ingredients last night, post-it stuck in a sweaty grip like a little kid and the fluorescents stabbing brightly overhead. He's got a lemon to juice, he just has to find it.

The fridge is pathetically bare, a pack of hotdogs next to a banged-up carton of eggs, some milk, a couple under-ripe avocados. Nothing behind half a head of lettuce, fruit drawer empty besides a bag of clementines next to a tub of ice cream he didn't put there.

Amelia never puts the ice cream back in the right place, and the well-worn knowledge raises an itch in his stomach, a fuzziness that could be warmth but isn't quite.

No lemon in sight, and the post-it very clearly says '1 lemon, juiced' in his painstaking all-caps, and it's past six o'clock.

Sam digs a little deeper in the bowels of the fridge and comes up empty-handed. He knows it's there somewhere. The dog comes nosing briefly, sneezes at the cold fumes, and leaves to curl up at the door, faithfully. Sam peers behind the tub of margarine for a fourth time, steadfastly ignoring the tremor in his hands.

And I used to be a dead shot, he thinks without much feeling, and keeps searching.

Amelia enters in a loud clatter of keys and shoes and carelessly flung doors. The dog barks hoarsely, once, and she starts on her daily greeting litany, half baby talk, half insults, all affection and expert scruffing of necks. Sam smiles even while he slams the fridge shut and goes to clutch the salad bowl.

"Hey. I made, uh." He lifts the bowl in ineffectual emphasis, feeling like a man being walked to the gallows. On some level he recognizes the ridiculousness of it all. "And chicken fingers."

Amelia gets up and smiles, awkward, tired, still in her lab coat. "Hey. Great. I'm starving." Her hand is lukewarm on his shoulder as she passes him by, a fluttering touch he lets himself lean into.

'1 lemon, juiced'. That's all he needs.

He keeps looking while she plates the chicken and digs for utensils in their haphazard mess of a kitchen drawer.

"C'mon Sam, let's eat. What are you staring at? You look like a puppy mill mutt with PTSD. Well you are. Not a mutt. What's in the fridge?" She shoves a big forkful of salad in her mouth hastily, cutting herself off.

"No-" but it's too late, she's already munching on the lemon-less salad, the dog curled at her feet.

She swallows. "Sam? What's wrong?"

"Um. There's no lemon. Couldn't find it." The cold raises goosebumps on his arms. She unwinds his fingers from the handle and nudges the fridge door shut.

"Dude. It's okay. I cook hotdog spaghetti, I really don't care--don't mind if there's lemon. C'mon, sit."

She smiles her awkward, beautiful smile and pulls him down to sit by their clasped hands. He sits.

"Salad is great. I love salad. Salad is the best, thanks Sam." She strokes her thumb down his jaw and he takes a quiet, shuddering breath.

When she leans in and kisses him, she tastes of onion and alcohol. His eyes drift closed and he lets her tongue stroke his, gentle, gentling.

"The garbage disposal is blocked again," she says, very fast, and goes to take another huge bite of dinner.

Sam huffs a laugh and chases her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted elsewhere for someone looking for more Amelia/Sam, reposted here for archival purposes.
> 
> Can't believe all I seem to have written for SPN is het, how did this happen! Amelia _is_ fall-off-my-chair beautiful though.


End file.
